


Hedonistia

by FictionalFeather



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-16
Updated: 2016-01-16
Packaged: 2018-05-14 09:23:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5738272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FictionalFeather/pseuds/FictionalFeather
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Fill for the kink meme.)</p>
<p>Anhedonia: the inability to experience pleasure.</p>
<p>Dorian has never truly enjoyed himself with someone else. The Iron Bull wants to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hedonistia

**Author's Note:**

> Sexual anhedonia doesn't actually work like this, as far as I know. But how realistic do you need your porn to be? Let's just say Dorian's issue grew from pent-up shame.

“So. Has anyone ever gotten you off?”

Dorian’s honestly not surprised; he knows very well how observant Bull is. He’s _trained_ to notice things. He probably knew about Dorian’s particular ailment before they’d ever climbed into bed together. A mercy he’d waited so long, really.

“Many and often, I’ll have you know,” he says, deliberately obtuse although he knows Bull will disapprove. Sometimes he finds Dorian’s run-around banter engaging, charming, even, and Bull’s not always so blunt that he doesn’t sometimes respond in kind, turning their conversations into verbose dances. But he knows this isn’t one of those times. He plays anyway. “I seem to recall just last night you took great pleasure in getting me off.”

The Iron Bull watches him with that infuriatingly nonchalant expression, arms crossed. “And I’d have taken a hell of a lot more if there’d been any pleasure in it for you.”

Dorian laughs, the sound hollow, and shakes his head. “It’s hardly so simple,” he says after a moment.

“Explain it then.”

He knows Bull approached him in the library to throw off their balance. It’s Dorian’s place, a place where Bull isn’t in charge and never will be, not in that way, but also a place just public enough that Dorian isn’t exactly comfortable discussing his sexual affairs. He’s free to walk away, to end the conversation at any point, but he can recognize Bull’s attempt to make this a conversation, not a negotiation.

Dorian shifts, crosses his arms. “It’s not as if it doesn’t feel good, it’s…” He sighs, shakes his head again. He’s never had to put words to this before, except in his own head, where it’s safe and has no potential to… _embarrass_ him. And of course he’s told himself it’s not a thing to be ashamed of, he knows it’s not, but he still wishes that the pleasure he got from a partner could come even half as close to what he could do to himself alone.

“You’ve had orgasms, yeah?”

Dorian’s eyes had shifted over to Bull when he spoke, because he hadn’t realized he’d been silent so long, but they quickly shift away as Dorian fights the flush threatening to appear. It wasn’t as if there was anybody within hearing range, but… _kaffas_ they were in the _library_.

“Yes.”

“But only with yourself.” Not really a question, but a clarification.

Dorian nods. He’d actually expected a little more derision, but Bull’s tone was free of even the slightest laugh.

“Is it a comfort thing? You said a lot of your previous encounters were rushed.”

“No, no, nothing like that. I do still come, after all.” He doesn’t bother reminding Bull that it takes only the slightest of pushes for Dorian to get downright demanding in bed; he’s not really shy about telling his bedmates what he wants, once things get going. It’s not a problem of reaching the point of climax, it’s the apex itself that’s troublesome. “It’s just…different, with someone else.”

“Different how?”

“ _Vishante kaffas_ , I don’t know. _Different_.” Dorian knows he’s being tetchy, but that hit a little too below the belt, too reminiscent of their bedroom relationship; Bull coaxing answers out of him, forcing him to put words to feelings, to spell out things he’d only experienced as ideas. Dorian’s words were always measured, carefully tailored to the situation. He wasn’t one to spout his thoughts without first collecting them.

Tied to the bed, helpless under Bull’s rule, he could allow Bull to wrest that control from him until it seemed his emotions flowed straight from his lips, but that…it wasn’t fair to try and impose those rules on something Dorian was already trying to open to him.

Bull must have sensed he’d scratched a barrier somewhere, because he doesn’t push further. Instead, he uncrosses his arms, leans against the bookshelf. (Dorian holds back a snarky comment about being nicer to the books.) “You can kick me out of here, you know. Tell me to go pester my boys or to inflict my terrible pick-up lines on the tavern girls.”

“I wouldn’t dare loose you on those poor women; your lines are terrible and you know it.”

“Worked on you, didn’t they?”

“I am exceptional in all things.”

Bull’s smile, though still a touch too smug for Dorian’s taste, is a welcome reprieve. “Would you be willing to let me try some things?”

Back to that again. And Dorian knows he’s not going to shut Bull out completely. He’s too far gone on the Qunari to really say no. He _wants_ this, wants to enjoy sex to the fullest extent, and who but The Iron Bull stood a chance of being the one person that could truly happen with?

He smiles, small and resigned. “Have I ever denied you before?”

***

He hurts everywhere. It’s not the concentrated pain that Bull will craft on his backside and thighs or the top of his back—that pain is agony with a purpose, whatever that purpose may be. _This_ …his whole body is alight and tingling, dancing on the edge of truly painful. Bull’s worked him over thoroughly and taken his damn sweet time doing it.

“Good?” Bull slides one palm down Dorian’s thigh.

“ _Delightful_ ,” comes the retort, all but snarled.

This hasn’t been like one of their other sessions, with Bull decimating Dorian’s walls piece by piece to get at the hurt he’d used to build them. There’s less call for total obedience, if still the same relinquishing of control. Dorian knows he’ll still need to submit himself if he’s going to be able to give Iron Bull what he wants, what they both want, and he doesn’t think he’s there. He knows he’s not, yet.

“Good.” Bull smacks his thigh, the impact made harsh with the layer of sweat on Dorian’s skin.

He’s actually lost count, by this point, of how many times he’s been denied his orgasm, each time the desire for release growing stronger, the last one leaving him swearing and attempting to kick his captor. Bull had tied his ankles down for that, legs stretched out to match his arms above his head. The soles of his feet still prickle from Bull having flogged them earlier, but it’s an even match to the stinging of his thighs, the prickling of the bite marks along his hips, the bright points of soreness that are his nipples, and the stretched burn of his throat from Bull’s cock.

The first time, many a night ago, that Bull had slapped his face, Dorian had sputtered and opened his mouth to call an end to things, but realized as he took the breath to do so that what he mistook for indecency and outrage was excitement. He may have been indignant indeed, but the very debasement of the act had left him staring wide-eyed up at Bull, body trembling as he resisted the urge to rut in search of friction.

His body feels similar to how his face did then. Gently brutalized, awash with the sensation that _he shouldn’t want more but Maker, it was so good_.

His balls are heavy, and Bull running his fingers over them creates an ache that has Dorian clenching his toes. He doesn’t know what he wants—to come, to hurt, to cry out, to give up. And normally Bull makes that choice for him; Dorian doesn’t have to think about whether or not he’ll go into that serene space made of restful pain and catharsis. But now, he doesn’t know what to do, what he _should_ do. Bull wants him to come, truly, like he never has with anybody else, but being pushed to the limit and denied leaves him yearning for The Iron Bull’s harsher touches.

Bull is shuffling, leaning down, and his mouth is on Dorian’s cock. Dorian sucks in a breath, forgets to let it back out. He’s too sensitive, it’s too _soon_ , and Bull’s mouth and warm and wet and inviting. Dorian’s knees would have jerked up instinctively, but Bull’s weight means he can’t do more than tense and twitch. It’s too _much_ , he’s going to _come_.

Fingers grip the base of his cock and squeeze, hard. Dorian lets out a sound somewhere between a yelp and a gasp of relief, but it’s tinged with pain. His cock is throbbing; he can’t stand being touched. His hips are moving, trying to escape Bull’s hold, and twin tears leak from his eyes to slide down his temples. Bull wipes them away, shushing Dorian soothingly, and finally lets go of his prick.

Dorian realizes he wants to come, wants it so much more than he ever has in the past. There’s never been this much anticipation with a partner before, _never_. He’s never needed it like this.

“I…” he mutters against the palm cradling his face, but he can’t finish it, can’t think of any words. “Please.” He’s not even sure what tongue he says it in.

“That’s good.” Bull’s hand slides along his face, fingers tracing his lips. Dorian gazes up at the eye watching him with steady intent and opens his mouth eagerly, obedience to those fingers long since learned. Bull presses down on his tongue, forces his mouth wide. “You’re so good,” he croons. His fingers slide further and further, until Dorian gives in to the urge to shut his mouth and suck, eyes fluttering closed. Bull’s fingers fill his mouth, receding only to pour back into him, and Dorian hums, high and desperately aroused.

“I’m going to let you come.”

Dorian’s cock throbs, a bead of slickness adding itself to the mess across his stomach. Just the anticipation is enough to set him trembling. The pressure deep in his gut is so unlike anything’s he experienced, like Bull’s taken his climax and compounded it, compressed it, shaped it into this ball of potential that just continues to build.

Bull’s fingers leave his mouth, and when that hand grips his cock, strokes and pulls, Dorian is helpless within moments. His breath leaves him and his body goes numb, floating and expectant, hanging on the edge, and then it hits him, and he’s aware of nothing but brightness. Pulsing, cresting, flowing; he’s falling or flying, it’s like magic overflowing his body. There’s no sound, no light, just peaks of sensation he’s lost in.

He seems to come back to awareness all at once, but truly, some things come before others. He notices first the gentle sensation of thumbs wiping away tears that had leaked out of him, then a scent that ought to be familiar, which makes his breath stutter when he realizes that yes, he’s breathing. Something is rubbing his wrist, his palm, and suddenly he can see The Iron Bull sitting on the bed next to him, though Dorian was certain he’d had his eyes open already. He blinks and breathes, flexes his hand, the one Bull isn’t fondling, when he notices it aches. He lifts his arm to look—Andraste’s tits, he’s _trembling_ —and sees four small indents in his palm. Ah, that smell; he must have burned through the rope and been clenching empty fists.

He lets his hand drop back to the bed and turns his gaze back to Bull, who’s practically grinning.

“You screamed.”

Dorian still manages to roll his eyes, even when he’s still close to panting. “You’ve heard me scream before.” He decides not to dwell on how his words were more of a mutter than the snide remark he’d been aiming for.

Bull laughs, soft and low. “Not like that.” He reaches back to undo Dorian’s ankles, but Dorian doesn’t bother trying to move. He’s perfectly content as he is. Perhaps a tad irritated by the sweat covering his body, but he’s exponentially more interested in a nap than a bath.

“Hey now, not yet.”

Bull rearranges so that he can lean against the headboard and pulls Dorian practically into his lap. Perhaps he thinks sitting up will deter Dorian from sleep. Silly, really.

“Come on, talk to me.”

Dorian opens his eyes only so that he can glare, but it’s completely ruined by his body tremoring suddenly. Aftershock or chill from cooling sweat, he doesn’t know or particularly care, not when it makes Bull gather the sheets around him and wrap those enormous arms tighter around him.

“Was it good?” He takes Dorian’s other wrist in hand now, rubbing softly at the rope and nail marks.

Dorian sighs. The amount of ways to answer that is innumerable, and Bull would _know_ if anything hadn’t been good about it, but all the same, Dorian looks up at him.

“Yes,” he says, blinking slowly. “It was wonderful.”

Bull hums a gentle affirmation, eye never leaving Dorian’s as he brings the wrist to his mouth and presses a single kiss to it. Dorian can’t help the sleepy smile that crawls onto his face.

“May I sleep now, you brute?” He lets his eyes slide shut even as he says it.

There’s a sharp exhalation of breath that he knows to be Bull chuckling, closer to a smile than a laugh.

“You sleep, _kadan_. I got you.”

A warm hand slides up his back and past his neck, cradling his head and holding it against Bull’s chest, and Dorian falls asleep like that, sitting cradled in Bull’s lap, exhausted and glowing, steadier than he’s felt in a long time.

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on tumblr at fictionalfeather.


End file.
